


stay (you're not gonna leave me)

by CCs_World



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Kissing, Lots Of Holy Water Stuff, Love Confessions, Other, Realizations, Repressed Feelings, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Suicide mentions, usual disregard for capital letters run on sentences and commas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 16:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CCs_World/pseuds/CCs_World
Summary: ‘i can drop you somewhere. anywhere you want to go,’ crowley says, infinitely soft, infinitely gentle.aziraphale knows it’s not about the destination. ‘you go to fast for me, crowley,’ he says, and he knows that crowley knows that it’s not about his (frankly abysmal) driving habits. and he gets out of the car.it’s for his own good, he tells himself. it’s for crowley’s safety. it’s so crowley doesn’t go unscrewing the cap.





	stay (you're not gonna leave me)

**Author's Note:**

> hi uwu im back i rewatched the miniseries today and i could NOT stop thinkin abt this please take this speedwritten-at-midnight piece of my soul
> 
> title from "wake up" by EDEN because it's about them

the image of crowley’s scrawling handwriting spelling out the words  _ holy water _ is seared into the backs of aziraphale’s eyelids. he cannot close his eyes for fear of seeing them, for knowing what they mean, for knowing what crowley wants. he will not do it. he will not!

_ it would destroy you! _

_ it’s not for me, it’s for insurance. _

aziraphale knows, as well as any angel or demon or priest or anybody, actually, what holy water can and will do to a demon. like a… a… something, deflating. hisssssssss _ pop.  _ no more demon. and aziraphale will  _ not _ let crowley get his hands on such a thing, even if it’s only for ‘insurance.’ god knows what ‘insurance’ means in crowley-language. aziraphale thinks he knows. he doesn’t want to think about it.

they knew, going into it, that the Arrangement had its risks. if either of their head offices found out about their little agreement, there would be hell and heaven, respectively, to pay. but this does not mean that crowley can just  _ ask _ aziraphale for a suicide pill! what hell and heaven would do to them could not be half as horrible as self-inflicted death by holy water, aziraphale thinks.

he hopes.

with crowley’s mocking ‘ _ obviously’ _ ringing in his ears, aziraphale doesn’t see the demon for a century.

he does whatever he can to distract himself, and tries not to think about all the possible terrible reasons why crowley hasn’t showed up again, and especially not about the one most terrible reason why crowley hasn’t shown his face: because aziraphale  _ hurt _ him. insulted him and yelled at him and fought with him and stormed away.

nearly six thousand years of knowing crowley, and he does  _ this. _

aziraphale tells himself that he had every right to be angry at crowley. he asked him for holy water, for heaven’s sake, of course aziraphale’s angry! of course he would refuse!

he forgets his anger in the year 1941, when crowley dances into a church and drops a bomb on the nazis.

‘oh, the books!’ aziraphale cries, wringing his hands in the dust. ‘i forgot all about the books! they’ll all be blown to-!’ he pauses, watches as crowley yanks something from the stiff hand of a dead nazi and hands it to aziraphale.

a suitcase full of incredibly priceless books of prophecy.

oh.

‘that was… very kind of you,’ he tells crowley, and doesn’t even mind the ‘shut up’ he receives.

something is warm and glowing, and it’s not the embers of the burning cross behind him. it’s a feeling, low and bright and soothing. love.

ah.

‘lift home?’ crowley asks, heading for a sleek black car, seemingly unaware of the simultaneous double-revelation that has struck the angel.

aziraphale stares at him, cheeks warm. he forgets, briefly, how to speak. or move. or think, really, past the screaming choirs of  _ i love him i love him i love him i love him i lo _

‘yes. ah, yes, if you’d be so k—i mean, if you wouldn’t mind.’ he hastens after crowley, nearly tripping in the rubble, catching himself on a beam and joining crowley in the car.

he has a lot to think about.

and he continues to think about it as they continue their arrangement as if there hadn’t been a hundred-year gap in the middle, as if the spat was nothing, as if everything was fine and okay and a rift hadn’t been torn and then the crack filled in with  _ whatever the fuck was happening between them now. _

the 1960s arrive, bright and shining, and aziraphale catches wind of a robbery of a  _ church _ and he knows that there can be only one man-shaped (probably) being behind it, and only one reason  _ why _ . and he realizes that no matter what happens, crowley’s life will be at risk.

he decides to lessen that risk, if only slightly, and slides into crowley’s car the night of the heist with a tartan thermos, carefully wiped down thrice with an equally-tartan teatowel and the cap sealed as tightly as it will go, and then some. ‘don’t go unscrewing the cap,’ he says, like it needs saying.

crowley looks at him, something like awe and gratitude and forgiveness behind those sunglasses and in that smile. and aziraphale looks at him and he knows. he knows he loves him, he knows crowley loves him back, and he knows that if he says anything, if crowley says anything, if anything at all happens between them that everything they’ve known and worked for will cease to exist. he knows that if he says what he feels, points out the obvious, that hell will have crowley’s head and aziraphale will be pulled off the earth, up to heaven, and severely reprimanded, and possibly forbidden to visit earth for several decades. or possibly centuries.

‘i can drop you somewhere. anywhere you want to go,’ crowley says, infinitely soft, infinitely gentle.

aziraphale knows it’s not about the destination. ‘you go to fast for me, crowley,’ he says, and he knows that crowley knows that it’s not about his (frankly abysmal) driving habits. and he gets out of the car.

it’s for his own good, he tells himself. it’s for crowley’s safety. it’s so crowley doesn’t go unscrewing the cap.

* * *

forty years go by, and if aziraphale doesn’t see crowley for a week he panics. it’s not because he doesn’t trust crowley, of course not. it’s definitely not because he thinks that crowley is going to douse himself in the most blessed of showers and leave the earth for good, leave aziraphale to deal with heaven and its paperwork and its cold barrenness and its lack of sushi and crepes and  _ crowley. _ where love feels clinical and detached and chilly, an obligation and not an extension.

except of  _ course _ aziraphale knows that if crowley so much as  _ thinks _ he’s in danger he will  _ run _ and he will  _ escape _ and he will do  _ anything _ to avoid hell’s anger.  _ my lot doesn’t send rude notes. _ aziraphale wonders what hell does instead. he doesn’t want to know how crowley knows.

they go about their business, thwarting and tempting and blessing, balancing each other out, filling out paperwork and living their lives, until in 2008, something happens. something  _ begins. _

it’s all a bit of a blur from there, until suddenly in august of 2019 it’s over. they stop the end times. they escape their respective head offices.

they dine at the ritz, and it feels like a beginning.

they head back to the bookshop that night for a continuation of the celebration (by way of a lovely grey goose) and get gloriously drunk, and it feels like home, in a way heaven and hell never have. crowley falls asleep on aziraphale’s couch, and aziraphale sobers up and reads the night away, and it feels comfortable and right. so, so, ineffably, wonderfully right.

oh,  _ fuck, _ he thinks, because they’re going to have to  _ talk _ about this.

it takes a week, maybe longer, and they’re going through their third very lovely bottle of pinot of the night when aziraphale asks, or, rather, slurs, ‘y’still have that holy water, then?’

‘mmnh,’ crowley says, ‘nah. used it onnnnnnnn ligur, i think. felt a bit bad for the reptile on his head. his fault for breaking into my flat with mm, ah, murderous intent.’

aziraphale suddenly feels a little ill.  _ insurance. _ he’s not drunk enough for this. or maybe sober enough? he refills the wine bottle about two-glasses worth, to take the edge off so he can think clearly, and he says, ‘you. you let me think for two  _ hundred _ years that i was giving you a, a, an easy way out? when all you wanted was. a weapon to keep hell away? you let me think that i was handing you  _ your death _ for two  _ centuries?’ _

crowley goes silent. he seems to be thinking. ‘oh,’ he finally says, ‘that’s why you were angry.’

‘ _ yes,  _ that’s why i was angry, why did you  _ think _ i was so angry?’

‘well, y’r an angel, i thought it was ‘cause you didn’t want me killing any demons! out of, of, divine  _ love _ or some bullshit.’

‘i was worried about  _ you!’ _ aziraphale cries. ‘do i  _ seem  _ like i worry about the wellbeing of  _ other _ demons half as much as i do you?’

crowley makes a small  _ ngk _ noise in the back of his throat. ‘don’t even see why you worry about  _ me _ that much, angel. i mean, you’re an  _ angel, _ i’m a  _ demon, _ we’re hereditary enemies,’ crowley says, and aziraphale recognizes immediately the way he mimicks aziraphale’s words back to him, and he immediately feels immensely, horribly, painfully guilty.

‘crowley,’ he says carefully, because he cannot  _ bear _ the way crowley’s golden eyes, glasses long since discarded, reflect the hurt aziraphale has caused. ‘the days before the end of the world, i said… a lot of things that i… didn’t mean, and that i regret.’ he reaches over and places a hand on crowley’s knee.

‘nnh,’ crowley says. his eyes are fixed upon aziraphale’s, but the muscles of his leg are so tense they’re quivering beneath aziraphale’s palm.

aziraphale gently smooths his thumb across the denim-clad thigh and resolutely doesn’t break eye contact. ‘crowley, i would prefer for you to be… sober, when i apologize to you. if that’s quite alright with you.’

crowley nods, lips slightly parted, and the wine bottles mostly refill. ‘apologizing, angel? to me?’ he whispers.

‘quite,’ aziraphale says, mouth twitching in a half-smile. ‘first, i’m… sorry, for this whole misunderstanding. i thought quite different for a very long time, and i’m afraid i’ve held a bit of a grudge since you handed me that note. and then, even after… the church, and the… all of it, after i gave you the water… i didn’t trust you, and i’m sorry for that, as well. and after that, i’m sorry for the way i have treated you, like we haven’t been friends, like we haven’t known each other for six thousand years, better than most beings have ever known each other—i’m sorry for pretending not to like you, and lying to your face about it.’

crowley’s eyes are wide and glimmering, he’s not breathing, and aziraphale can feel, can see, how badly he’s trembling. he reaches out his free hand, his hand that is not resting on crowley’s leg, and brushes a lock of hair off crowley’s forehead in an attempt to soothe. crowley’s eyelids flutter and he lets out a small, trembling gasp. ‘angel,’ he whispers.

‘there’s more,’ aziraphale murmurs. ‘i’m sorry for acting as though i don’t love you. i’m sorry for hiding, i’m sorry for worrying, i’m sorry for treating you as though you don’t deserve every ounce of love on this planet, every drop in my heart. i’ve loved you for millennia, my demon, i’ve known for nearly a century, i’ve hidden it from you all that time. and i’m sorry for knowing that you love me, too, and still viewing you as though you don’t.’

he sits there for a moment, watches crowley’s face, and then, when crowley doesn’t move or breathe or speak he takes a deep breath and sits back, awkward, and says, ‘well. now that i’ve finished saying what i need to say i will head out back and discorporate myse—’

he doesn’t finish what he’s saying, because crowley lurches forward and grabs fistfuls of aziraphale’s jacket and pulls him to him, and, mouths a breath away, whispers, ‘tell me you love me again, angel.’

aziraphale knows, he can feel it, and he knows crowley will only ask him once and if he doesn’t speak crowley will get up and leave and never return. but he doesn’t worry for a moment. instead, he smiles, and his hands move up to cup crowley’s jaw, and he breathes, ‘i love you.’

and the gap closes.

**Author's Note:**

> if u like this u can find me @morosexual-aziraphale on tumblr! dont forget to drop a kudos and a comment!


End file.
